


There Is no Lie that You Can Live In

by Taste_is_Sweet



Series: Soldiers of Fire and Shadows [11]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Claire Temple is a Saint, Epiphanies, Gen, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Really Bad Epiphanies, matt no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 18:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10996125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet
Summary: He can't be Hydra. Because if he wasn't created like this, if it's not God but Hydra that's responsible for what he's become…then the wrongness isn't inside him, itishim. God didn't put the devil in him; Matthew made himself into a monster.For years, Matt has tried to think of his abilities as a gift, to mitigate the curse he was born with. But if it's Hydra, if it'sallHydra, then there is no gift. There's no curse. It's just him. Just some sick fuck who makes excuses to beat the shit out of people because he likes it.





	There Is no Lie that You Can Live In

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song [Tall Tall Shadow](https://youtu.be/KfjnRbHtLAQ) by Basia Bulat (I'm excited because I _really_ wanted to be able to use this song; I love it).

"If you're calling me because someone threw you off a building again, I'm going to kill you. Fair warning."

Matt grins as he walks along the sidewalk, phone pressed comfortably to his ear. _taptaptap_ goes his cane, swinging back and forth. It's cold, but the sun is out and he won the case for his client, so today's been a pretty good one so far. "Did I ever tell you how much I appreciate you?"

There's a momentary, stunned silence on the other end of the phone. "Okay. Who the hell are you and what have you done with Matt?"

"I mean it!" Matt laughs out loud. Ahead of him the afternoon crowd parts. Necks swivel as people stare, a heartbeat here and there speeds up. Sometimes he makes people nervous. "I appreciate you, Claire. You're a good friend."

"Oh. Well, thank you. I appreciate you not being half dead for once. Unless you are and you're just trying to butter me up before I have to come drag your bleeding ass out of an alley again."

"Nope. Entirely in one piece," he says happily. "I did have a favor to ask, though." He ignores her semi-fond, semi-exasperated 'there it is!'. "It's easy, I promise. And I'll even buy you a coffee."

"Oh, _well_ then, big spender." She's going to help him. He knows she would have anyway, but there's definitely more fondness than exasperation in her voice. "Are you bringing it to the clinic? Or—"

"Or I'm waiting for you at the little place across the street," Matt says, stopping right next to the door.

"Good thing I'm not busy," Claire says dryly. The door opens and closes and now the faint stereo effect of her voice in real time and over the phone becomes annoyingly loud as she walks to the nearest stoplight.

"If you were busy you wouldn't have picked up," Matt says. He also would have heard someone in the background, but Claire was by herself, inventorying supplies. "I'm hanging up now." He does.

"Rude," Claire says, because she knows he can hear her.

Matt makes his grin very big to be sure she can see it.

* * *

"All right. What's the favor?" Claire says after taking an appreciative sip of her latte. The heavy ceramic cup hits the saucer with a clink. About the only thing Matt can smell is the cinnamon her drink is flavored with. It's made drinking his own black coffee less than appealing, so it's mostly untouched.

"This was left for me, but I can't read it." Matt pulls the neatly folded paper out of his pocket, but hesitates before sliding it along the table. He's not worried about what she'll do with it. It's just…it's personal. For him. He can feel that every time he runs his fingertips over the thick pencil lines. He doesn't want to have to share it. That's partly why he didn't, after he woke up more-or-less intact and clearheaded in Claire's apartment. It didn't feel right, just handing it over. He wouldn't be asking her to read it now, if he had a choice. But he spent the last couple nights searching for Engine, and he can't find him. He's hoping there will be a clue in the note he left, so he has to know what it says. There's no choice for him about this, just like there's no choice with so many other things.

Claire sees his hesitation, because she puts her hand over his instead of just taking the note. "I promise, I won't tell anyone what it says."

"I know." His smile isn't as broad as it was, but he still means it.

The paper crinkles as she unfolds it, but instead of starting to read she turns the paper upside down, then shakes her head and turns it the right way up again, then flips the page over.

"What's wrong?"

"It's…." Claire tucks her hair behind her ear, flips the page again then flips it back. She lifts her head. "Who gave this to you?"

"I don't know." Which is, strictly, the truth. Matt has no idea who rescued him, beyond whatever unique elements differentiated him to Matt's senses. If those impressions are even reliable. He thinks of how certain he was that Engine was with him in Claire's apartment, and guesses that they're not.

He can hear her forehead bunch when she frowns. "So they, what? Left it at your office or something?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Claire stares at him for a moment. A deep breath blasts out of her nose. She's annoyed with him. "Well," she says with far more patience than she's feeling, considering the rapidity of her pulse, "I'm not sure what language this even is, so it might be helpful to know where it came from."

Matt resists snatching the paper back from her to run his fingers over it again. If he could decipher the words he wouldn't have called her in the first place. "What do you mean?"

"Just that." She puts the paper on the table, spreading it flat between her hands. "I'm pretty sure most of it's in Russian. Except there are some words in English, and some where it's like whoever wrote it started in one language and finished in another. And I think they signed it three times and then scratched it all out." She looks up at him again, making her hair slide along her back. "Are they okay? Because seriously, Matt…this is the kind of letter you get from someone who the neighbors say was really quiet and kept to themselves."

Matt licks his lips. He pinches a fold of his trousers under the table, running it back and forth through his fingers. "The guy who saved me left it. I know he spoke Russian."

"Holy shit." Claire takes another drink from her cup, holding it in both hands. The thick scent of milk, coffee, and more artificial cinnamon wafts over the table to him. "Okay. You're talking about the guy who practically splintered your rib cage keeping your heart beating, right?"

Matt winces, but he nods. "I don't remember that."

"Well, yeah. No fucking kidding, you wouldn't remember that," Claire snorts. "So, you finally going to tell me what happened?"

He doesn't want to tell her now any more than he did when he woke up, but he knows he's just lost any choice he had about that either. So he tells her everything he remembers: the man he thought was Steve, fighting against terrible odds in a part of town he had no business being in; how he realized it wasn't Steve; how one of the darts hit him; how each time Matt woke up from the sedative it was as if he were with a different person.

"Are you sure you weren't with a different person?" she asks over the rim of her cup.

"I know how crazy it sounds," he says, trying to keep his voice neutral. This is why he hadn't wanted to tell her in the first place, because it was hard enough to believe when he'd lived it. "But it was the same guy. He had the same voice, and he smelled the same."

"Okay." She tugs the note over to her again. "That explains the mishmash of languages, actually. Maybe he has dissociative identity disorder?"

"I don't know." Matt rubs his forehead. All the happiness he felt when he called Claire is gone. All he feels is confused, frustrated and sad. "All I know is that he needs help. I've been trying to find him. I was hoping the note would say where he was."

"Hey, it's all right. We'll figure this out." She puts her hand over his again, squeezing gently. Hers is very warm from her cup. She gives a breath that means she wants to say something but doesn't.

"What is it?"

Claire's teeth meet in a grimace. "Sometimes I hate how you can do that. I was going to say that I know someone who could probably read this."

"No," Matt says immediately, shaking his head. "I don't know what's in the note. I can't risk it."

She glances around the little coffee shop, but the only other patrons are too far away to hear. Claire leans forward across the small table and lowers her voice anyway. "He already knows who you are. He was at my apartment!" she adds immediately, then holds his hand more tightly so he won't jerk it back and bolt, the way he wants to. "Listen. Listen, okay? It's not what you think. I didn't tell him about you. Just let me explain." Her heart is hammering almost as fast as his own.

Matt is so angry it's hard to breathe, but he doesn't yank his hand away and he doesn't leave. "What happened?" his voice is deadly, Daredevil's voice. He can't help that. The fact that Claire is telling him the truth is the only reason he's still there at all.

"His name is Illya," she says, leaning even closer and lowering her voice again. "He's like you."

That name…means something. Maybe. He can't place it. "Blind?"

Claire's hair slides when she shakes her head. "No. Special, like you. Because that's my fucking life now. But, yeah. Like you." She leans in so closely that her mouth is right next to his ear. The other patrons must think they're flirting. "Only, more like the Winter Soldier."

Matt blinks, pulls back. "What do you mean? He's dead."

"I know." She bends back to his ear. "I found Illya after he busted out of a cryo cylinder in the goddamn storage room of where I used to work. They froze him, just like Bucky Barnes. He's just damn lucky he woke up and got himself out before he ran out of air."

"What's a cryo cylinder?"

She sits up straight, staring at him. "Didn't you read that issue of _Time?_ "

Right. _That_ issue. Foggy and Karen told him about it. Karen wanted to find him a version in braille. He'd politely refused. Matt shakes his head. "Didn't seem relevant."

"Okay…." Claire pulls her hair over one shoulder as she thinks. A single strand falls to the table, then slips to the floor with a sound like new snow. "You know how Hydra infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D., right?" He nods and she goes on. "And you know about Sergeant Barnes?"

"Of course." Less than a month ago Daredevil stood in Morningside Park and held Steve Rogers as he cried his heart out for Bucky Barnes. "He was…." He stops, breath stuttering over the realization. "Your friend…you mean he's like _that,_ like him?"

She goes back to the close, quiet speaking. "That's exactly what I mean. They even knew each other."

There's a lot more there than what Claire just told him, but Matt knows how to respect secrets. "Why was he at your apartment?"

"He wanted to know if what he'd read about Barnes was true. He saw you when you wandered into the living room to ask who was there."

"I did?"

"Yes, you did," she says on a sigh. "And then you passed out on your feet less than a minute later. Illya caught you before you hit the floor. He carried you back into the bedroom for me. I'd shoved your outfit under the bed, but he saw it anyway."

"Oh." There's more to that story than what Claire told him as well. He wonders if this is how Karen and Foggy felt, with every one of his unconvincing lies. And then the _he carried you back into the bedroom for me_ really hits him, and he gasps. "It was him!"

Claire shushes him, glances around the café again. "What do you mean, 'it was him'?"

Matt dutifully leans so close to her that their noses nearly collide. He lowers his voice to match hers. "The guy who left the note. He and your friend smell almost the same. Like, so similar that when I woke up I thought he'd been there. Except the scent didn't quite match, so I decided I must've imagined it."

She blinks and her eyelashes meet soft as kisses. "Is that normal? For random people to smell similar like that?"

"No." Matt shakes his head. "Family members do, and people who spend a lot of time together tend to have the other's scent on their clothes or skin. I thought it was just that the scent of the guy who helped me had rubbed off on me, and that'd I'd fabricated the slight differences in my head. That's why I didn't ask you," he adds, because Claire's forehead is bunching again. "I thought I was still fucked up from the tranquilizers."

Claire grunts in acknowledgement as she finishes her coffee, then pushes the cup and saucer away from her and crosses her arms on the table. "So you're basically saying there are at least two former Hydra captives out there, and we've each met one of them? Jesus." She rubs the bridge of her nose. "How many of them are there?" She blinks at him again, then bobs her head back a little as if she's startled herself. She looks away. Another story she won't tell him.

That's one too many. "What? What is it?" he asks, finally exasperated. "You keep breathing like there's something you want to tell me. But you don't."

"It's not my thing to tell," Claire says simply. "If it were, I would. I'm sorry."

"Well, who's is it, then?"

"Illya's."

"Illya?" Matt frowns. "What does he know about me?"

"You'll have to ask him." Claire's fingertip taps lightly on the notepaper. She wants to say something again, keeps looking at him and then away.

"Claire, _please_ ," he begs. "Just tell me. This almost saying something and then not is driving me insane."

Her teeth meet as she winces. "He should be the one telling you this. Not me." She huffs in frustration and defeat. "All right. Fuck it. You're not going to want to hear this, but…Illya recognized you, Matt. Before he saw your stuff under the bed. He even knew you can't see. He knows who you are."

That's the absolute truth, as far as Claire knows it. But it makes no sense. Matt's hands clench under the table. He doesn't like people knowing he's Daredevil. The fact he's never even met Illya makes it worse. "How? How did he know about me?"

Claire bites the inside of her lip, uncharacteristically uncertain. Her anxious pulse fits between the beats of his own. "Because Hydra made you too."

"No." The denial is as sharp and certain as anything that's ever cut him. It doesn't matter if Claire believes it. It's not true. "That's a lie. He lied to you." He pushes back from the table, but she grabs his wrist before he can stand to leave.

"Matt, please. I reacted exactly the same way when he told me. Just listen. Listen, all right? He said—"

"I don't give a damn what he said," Matt snaps. "I'm not going to listen to this bullshit." He knows this isn't her fault, that she's not trying to deliberately upset him. But it's a lie. It's a grotesque, disgusting _lie_ and he can't let her try to convince him. He won't.

"He said it happened in the hospital, after you got hurt. They gave you the serum." She's speaking quickly, her heart hammering. Her hand is still around his wrist and he can feel the _shushshushshush_ of her pulse in her palm. "You and he were Summer Soldiers, because you were changed as children. He called you his brother."

Matt gives his arm a sharp twist so she lets go of him. "Well he's not. And he's not your friend either, if he's trying to sell you this garbage. And I'm done listening to it." He snatches up his cane and leaves. He's walking so fast his cane won't actually help him, but the swift, loud clacking as he swings it is a satisfying rhythm for his anger. It means he doesn't throw anything.

He realizes when he's too far away to go back that he left the letter on the table. He knows Claire will keep it safe, but that fuckup on top of everything else is almost enough to have him screaming, splinter his cane against the nearest wall. But almost isn't anything. He's good at keeping control. He's been doing it for a very long time.

That's the reason he's not Hydra: Because the Murdock boys have the devil in them. That's why he works best in the darkness, out of reach of all the gentle, daylight things. That's why he will never stop being Daredevil, even if it kills him. Even if it destroys him. He was born tainted, long before he lost his sight. He likes causing harm, likes the taste of blood at the back of his throat. He likes having a reason to give in to his anger.

He remembers how his dad's eyes used to go dead sometimes during the fights, right before he'd unleash hell on his opponent. Matt's eyes have been dead since he was nine.

So he can't be Hydra. Because if he wasn't created like this, if it's not God but Hydra that's responsible for what he's become…then the wrongness isn't inside him, it _is_ him. God didn't put the devil in him; Matthew made himself into a monster.

For years, Matt has tried to think of his abilities as a gift, to mitigate the curse he was born with. But if it's Hydra, if it's _all_ Hydra, then there is no gift. There's no curse. It's just him. Just some sick fuck who makes excuses to beat the shit out of people because he likes it.

 _If all I saw was fire, I'd probably want to hit people too._ Claire told him that, when he described how his senses translated the world. But maybe it's not his senses. Maybe that's what he sees because he's the one burning. Immolating himself with rage. A Soldier of fire and shadows.

He doesn't want to live like that. He won't. He _can't_ live like that. So Claire's friend Illya is lying. Illya has to be lying.

Matt is sure of it, quietly seething under his certainty. Then he gets to the top of the stairs of his building and goes into the office with the "Matthew Murdock, Attorney At Law," sign in as precise black sharpie as his neighbor could manage. And stops dead. Because Engine was there, in his office. The scent of ozone and copper is everywhere.

Except, there's no hot engine smell, no hint of lightning right after it strikes. The scent is close, but it can't be the man who rescued him.

Illya? Not him either. There's no overlay of the iron he remembers from Claire's apartment. And if it was Steve, the scent would be wood. And Steve wouldn't be in Matt's office anyway.

But Matt's office smells like a newly-lit match, over the copper and ozone. No wood; no iron; no engine; no lightning.

 _It's the sedative,_ he thinks. But it's been days since he woke up in Claire's apartment. Days since he told himself it was the drugs when he went home and was hit by the same familiar scent with the tinge of new flame. Days since he ignored it; pretended it didn't mean anything.

But Claire said that Hydra made him. And he can't ignore this. He can't pretend anymore.

The scent is familiar because it's _his._ He stopped noticing it, the way he stopped noticing the rasp of his clothes on his skin or the whisper of the blood in his veins. But it's him, and his scent is nearly the same as the others. Because Hydra made all three of them.

Hydra made him too.

Matt falls to his knees on the wooden floor of his stark, lonely office. Not to pray, because there's no point. Who would listen to a monster?

That's what he's always been, isn't it? You can't quarantine what's bred in the bone.

The phone on the desk starts to ring while Matt is still struggling to breathe through the epiphany that's tearing him apart. But whoever is calling might need his help.

He drags himself to his feet and answers the phone. When the caller asks if he's all right, he says he's just a little out of breath from climbing the stairs. She believes him.

The caller has a problem Matt thinks he can help her with, so he accepts the case. It's his job, after all. The only thing he knows aside from violence. This woman needs him. What else is he going to do?

Nothing. He has nothing else, and no one. He made sure of that.

_What about Engine? He saved your life. And Illya called you his brother._

Two other people out there in the world with the same scent. Three, if he counts Steve Rogers (he doesn't count Steve Rogers. Captain America is nothing like him). Two people with one, awful thing in common with him. Who might be able to teach him how to survive, now, knowing what he is.

But devils don't have friends.

He doesn't know Illya, so that's fine. He'll never meet him. But he still has to find Engine. He'll go out again tonight. Maybe he'll get lucky even without the note. He'll make sure Engine is okay, and then….

And then he'll go on, like always. It doesn't matter what he is; people depend on him. He'll just have to keep it buried inside him, like all the other terrible things. He's good at keeping control. He's been doing it for a very long time.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> This story fills the **Destruction** part of the **Destruction/Natural Disasters** square of my [Hurt/Comfort Bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) [Card.](http://taste-is-sweet.livejournal.com/99391.html) Because self-concept can be destroyed as permanently and as devastatingly as any building.
> 
> And I have a [Tumblr. Hi!](http://taste-is-sweet.tumblr.com/)


End file.
